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GIFT  OF 


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BY  MRS.  CORA  BATES 


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INTRODUCTORY 

This  little  book  suggests  a  way 
To  find  a  brighter,  better  day. 
There's  too  much  sordid  strife  for  gain, 
There's  too  much  sorrow,  grief  and  pain. 
Too  much  insanity  and  woe — 
The  road's  too  rough  o'er  which  we  go. 
Humanity  needs  hope  and  cheer. 
Suggestions  which  I  give  you  here 
Will  help  to  smooth  the  rugged  road, 
Assist  you  all  to  bear  your  load. 
Nothing  so  fills  the  soul  with  grace 
As  love  for  all  the  human  race; 
Especially  the  poor  and  weak, 
Who  Fortune's  favor  vainly  seek. 
I've  followed  the  insistent  call 
To  place  this  book rin  raach  of  all; 
And  to  the  people  of  all  climes 
I  dedicate  my  book  of  rhymes. 


Contents 


The  Toll  of  the  Mills...^ 5 

Sequel  to  "The  Toll  of  the  Mills" 7 

The  Desert  Flower 12 

War  and  "Bruvver"  Jim 14 

"Tight-Wad"    16 

My  Little  Boy 17 

Give  the  Devil  His  Due 18 

The  Boy  and  the  Farm 20 

Bury  Me  Under  the  Elms 21 

The  Sweet  and  the  Bitter 22 

Our   Little    Ones 24 

The  Exorbitant  Price 25 

In  a  Hundred  Years 28 

My  Dream  of  the  War 29 

Waiting  for  the  Dawn 31 

The  Old  Broncho's  Story 33 

The   Newsboy's   Lament 35 

Little  Jim's  Christmas 37 

The  Boy  With  the  Smiling  Eyes 38 

The  Broken  Wing 39 

The  Winter  Wind 41 

Rhymes  for  the  Farmer 43 

Wounded  45 

Rhymes  for  Mothers 46 

Evelyn  49 

Indian  vs.  "Big  Land  and  Water  Man" 52 

Christmas  54 

Sacrificed   56 

The  Reformer  Suicide 58 

To  San  Quentin  Prison  for  Life 59 

Incarnate    Christ...  ..  62 


Copyright.  1916,  by  Mrs.  Cora  Bates 
Sacramento,  California 

35881 


THE  TOLL  OF  THE  MILLS 

(A  true  stoty.) ' 

A  little  boy  with  waving  locks, 

Black  as  a  raven's  wing, 
Was  skipping  down  a  city  street, 

And  a  song  you  could  hear  him  sing; 
For  a  half -holiday  he  was  now  to  take, 

Away  from  the  factory's  din. 

Just  eleven  summers  this  bonny  boy, 

With  his  eyes  of  dancing  brown, 
Had  played  in  the  streets  and  had  gone  to  school 

In  this  busy  New  York  town; 
And  now  the  factory  claimed  his  time 

For  many  a  busy  round. 

Five  years  roll  by,  and  we  meet  him  again 

As  he  carries  the  molten  steel, 
Week  in,  week  out,  'till  months  and  years 

His  youthful  vigor  steal; 
And  the  boyish  shoulders  droop  and  bend 

And  the  story  sad  reveal 

Of  over-work  and  nutrition  poor, 

That  take  from  labor's  son, 
His  God-given  strength  and  buoyancy 

Ere  manhood  has  begun, 
And  set  him  adrift  on  life's  rough  sea, 

With  no  strength  the  race  to  run. 

Maimed  by  a  cruel  bar  of  steel — 

But  no  damage  could  he  claim; 
For  labor  cannot  afford  to  pay 

The  costs  in  a  losing  game; 
So  he  left  the  mills  and  to  seek  for  work, 

To  the  Golden  State  he  came. 

His  father,  mid  Alpine  beauty  reared, 

Was  the- son  of  rural  toil, 
And  his  mother,  from  vineyards  of  sunny  France, 

Had  taught  him  to  love  the  soil, 
The  birds,  the  flowers  and  all  things  pure, 

Away  from  the  town's  turmoil. 

[  5  ] 


Sto  he  sought  for  work  on  a  farm,  and  soon 
He  was  tcssing  the  new-mown  hay, 

In  the  fields  so  green  where  Pacific's  waves 
Meet  the  waters  of  the  bay — 

Where  the  sea  gulls  winged  their  circling  flight, 
And  sped  from  the  shore  away. 

But  the  withering  curse  of  the  Eastern  mills, 

The  factory's  awful  blight, 
Still  followed  him  to  this  Western  shore, 

And  struggle  as  best  he  might, 
Grim  hunger  wasted  the  manly  form 

And  changed  his  day  to  night. 

In  a  hospital  out  by  the  Western  sea, 

With  health  and  hope  all  fled, 
The  physical  wreck  of  a  stalwart  man 

Lies  helpless  upon  his  bed, 
Heart  broken  and  lonely  the  weary  weeks 

He  endures  with  nameless  dread. 

The  drooping  shoulders,  the  eyes  of  brown, 

The  waving  raven  hair, 
Are  those  of  the  lad  we  met  before 

In  that  Eastern  city  where 
His  father  and  mother  were  laid  to  rest, 

And  his  brother  and  sister  fair. 

O,  could  you  come  from  the  spirit  world, 

Dear  mother,  and  see  your  son 
In  his  early  manhood  stricken  low, 

The  sands  of  life  most  run, 
You  would  yearn  for  someone  to  help  your  child, 

Ere  life's  short  day  is  done. 

Who  will  go  to  the  lonely  ward 

Where  the  sick  and  dying  pine, 
For  a  mother's  sympathy  and  love, 

For  a  mother's  touch  divine, 
And  cheer  this  helpless,  friendless  one 

Ere  he  leaves  the  shore  of  time? 


SEQUEL  TO  "THE  TOLL  OF  THE  MILLS" 

They  took  him  away  from  the  dreary  ward 

To  a  quiet  country  place, 
Where  birds  and  flowers  and  children  fair 

From  his  memory  erased 

The  thoughts  of  sorrow  and  sighs  and  death, 
And  slowly  his  strength  returned; 

His  ambitious  spirit  once  more  prevailed, 
And  bodily  weakness  spurned. 

And  happily  forth  again  he  went, 

Builder  and  painter  in  one; 
Friends  gave  employment  and  wages  good, 

And  praise  for  work  well  done. 

But  the  eager  spirit  and  willing  hands, 

And  the  ever-active  brain, 
Drove  all  too  fast  the  faltering  heart, 

And  the  hospital  doors  again 

Swung  open  an  invalid  to  receive, 

Disheartened  and  sick  and  sad, 
And  the  doctors  told  him  quite  frankly  then 

That  no  slight  chance  he  had. 

Those  long-drawn  sighs  and  bitter  groans, 

As  he  struggled  for  his  breath, 
Were  caused  by  the  pain  of  living, 

And  not  by  the  dread  of  death. 

But  what  is  this?    Is  it  just  a  dream — 

A  thought  of  the  fevered  brain? 
This  blessed  relief  that  has  come  again 

From  mental  and  physical  pain. 

In  a  pleasant  home  on  a  quiet  street, 

Away  from  groans  and  sighs, 
Our  hero  of  the  Eastern  mills 

In  convalescence  lies. 


But  very  near  to  the  gates  of  death 

He  lay  for  many  a  day, 
And  here  are  a  few  of  the  thoughtful  things 

That  his  nurses  heard  him  say: 

"One  thing  before  I  die  I  hope 
The  Lord  will  let  me  see — 
A  vision  of  peace  and  prosperity, 
In  the  lands  beyond  the  sea. 

"The  Allies  all  with  the  Germans, 

Shake  hands  and  call  it  squared, 
While  homes  for  the  widows  and  orphans 
I  would  like  to  see  prepared. 

"And  I  wish  you  would  write  to  a  friend  of  mine, 

That  I  bear  him  no  ill-will, 
Though  a  disagreement  we  have  had, 
He  may  think  I'm  unfriendly  still. 

"I  hear  the  whistles,  it's  seven  o'clock; 

I  hate  to  hear  them  blow, 
For  it  means  that  men,  whether  sick  or  well, 
To  their  arduous  tasks  must  go. 

"For  if  they  miss  but  a  single  hour, 

In  the  early  morn,  you  see, 
Their  job  will  be  given  to  some  one  else, 
And  penniless  they  will  be. 

"See  the  butcher's  boy,  with  his  tired  horse, 

A-tearing  along  the  street — 
Folks  have  no  mercy  upon  a  horse, 
When  they're  late  in  ordering  meat. 

"There's  the  postman  climbing  those  flights  of  steps, 

With  his  tired  legs  and  feet— 
If  the  mail  boxes  lower  down  were  placed, 
He  could  reach  them  from  the  street. 


t  8  ] 


"I  like  to  watch  that  huckster  feed 

His  team  across  the  way, 
The  birds  hop  'round  while  he  stands  and  pats 
The  black  and  then  the  bay. 

"I  never  enjoyed  the  menagerie, 

For  I  couldn't  bear  to  see, 
The  animals  caged  with  iron  bars, 
When  they're  used  to  roaming  free. 

"Last  night  in  my  dreams  I  was  back  again 

To  a  little  boy  of  four, 
And  my  grandmother  held  me  as  she  did 
A  thousand  times  or  more. 

"She  put  in  my  hand  an  apple  small, 

And  in  sweetest  tones  she  said: 
'I'm  sorry  it  isn't  a  big  one,  dear, 

All  ripe,  and  mellow,  and  red. 

"  'Never  mind,  Freddie,  some  day  we'll  go 

To  the  beautiful  land  of  France, 
And  live  once  more  in  our  own  chateau, 
It  may  be  so  perchance. 

"  'Your  mother's  grandfather  was  rich,  you  know, 

But  the  Revolution  came, 
And  he  was  banished  to  foreign  lands 
And  the  church  of  Notre  Dame 

"  'Got  all  his  wealth  through  a  great  mistake, 

But  some  day  they'll  make  it  right; 
And  then  we  will  have  a  lovely  home, 
In  a  land  so  warm  and  bright. 

"  'And  maybe  we'll  go  to  Switzerland, 

Where  your  father  laughed  and  played, 
As  he  drove  to  pasture  his  father's  cows, 
Or  through  the  woodland  strayed.' 


"I'm  sorry  'twas  just  a  dream,  for  then 

I  was  never  weak  nor  sick; 
I  was  well  and  strong  till  my  teacher  beat 
My  spine  with  that  heavy  stick. 

"Then  the  work  in  the  mills  was  hard,  you  know, 

The  steel  was  heavy  to  lift, 
And  often  rather  than  lose  my  job 
I  worked  an  extra  shift. 

"Then  my  grandmother  died  and  my  mother,  too, 

And  I  knew  there  was  not  a  chance, 
That  I  ever  would  see  the  old  chateau, 
In  the  pleasant  land  of  Prance. 

"And  Constance  Lake  and  Geneva,  too, 

In  the  beautiful  Alpine  hills, 
Faded  away  like  the  closing  day, 

And  were  lost  in  the  roar  of  the  mills. 

"Then  sadness  and  desolation  filled 

My  heart  as  I  drifted  West, 
With  spinal  trouble  and  nerves  unstrung, 
But  there — you  know  the  rest." 

And  then  once  more  in  the  sunshine  warm, 

Of  the  beautiful  spring  so  gay, 
Where  the  level  green  of  Del  Paso  plains 

In  beauty  stretched  away, 

He  walked  again  in  the  open  air, 
And  enjoyed  the  birds  and  flowers, 

'Till  the  grass  turned  brown  and  the  flowers  died, 
From  need  of  refreshing  showers. 

Then  his  spirits  sank  and  he  took  his  bed, 

No  more  to  be  up  again, 
To  his  kindly  physician  he  said,  "  'Tis  best, 

Just  let  me  die  free  from  pain." 


[  10  ] 


And  the  thoughtful  neighbors  and  children  came, 

Beguiling  with  fruit  and  flowers, 
And  with  genuine  Christian  sympathy, 

The  painless  but  wearisome  hours. 

Like  a  guard  defending  a  massive  tower, 

Whose  broken  pillars  stand 
A  monument  to  the  graft  and  greed 

Of  the  spoilers  of  the  land, 

So  his  soul  still  clung  to  the  giant  form, 

Nor  heeded  the  call  of  death, 
So  loath  to  depart  from  that  temple  grand, 

Of  which  it  had  been  the  breath. 

One  lovely  morning  in  early  May, 

While  the  grass  was  bright  with  dew, 

Two  dear  little  birds  that  he  loved  so  well, 
To  his  open  window  flew, 

And  chirped  and  fluttered  and  sailed  away 

As  he  said,  "I  am  sinking  fast." 
And  heavenly  smiles  as  they  watched  him  there, 

O'er  his  classical  features  passed. 

Conscious  again  he  spoke  and  said, 

"Such  beautiful  singing  I  heard; 
It  sounded  so  sweet  and  so  far  away, 

But  'twas  not  the  song  of  a  bird." 

"The  Desire  of  Ages,"  a  neighbor  brought — 

He  rallied  and  read  each  day. 
"Why  Weepest  Thou?"  looked  from  the  open  page, 
As  his  spirit  passed  away. 

The  thought  he  expressed  when  last  he  spoke, 

In  accents  soft  and  mild, 
Was  characteristic  solicitude 

For  the  health  of  a  little  child. 


[  11  1 


The  expressive  eyes  in  death  were  closed — 
He  was  free  from  all  earthly  ills. 

In  pathos  and  pain,  his  life  had  paid 
The  terrible  toll  of  the  mills. 

They  sang  the  hymns  that  he'd  often  sung — 
The  ones  he  had  loved  the  best, 

And  stranger  friends,  in  an  honored  grave 
Laid  him  away  to  rest. 


THE  DESERT  FLOWER 

'Twas  just  a  little  desert  flower, 

Blooming  on  the  plain, 
And  never  had  it  known  a  shower 

Of  cool,  refreshing  rain. 

Its  struggle  for  existence  there 

Nobody  cared  or  knew. 
All  'round  the  ground  was  dry  and  bare, 

While  scorching  south  winds  blew. 

A  village  maiden  passed  that  way, 

And  saw  the  little  flower; 
She'd  come  from  where  the  roses  gay 

Graced  many  a  lavish  bower. 

"O,  precious  little  flower,"  she  said, 

"There  blooming  in  the  sand, 
You  have  no  loamy,  mossy  bed 
In  which  your  roots  expand. 

"You've  not  the  grand  and  gorgeous  dyes — 

Rich  purple,  red  and  green, 
But  you're  more  lovely  in  my  eyes 
Than  any  flower  I've  seen. 

"Your  little,  slender  stem  of  brown, 

Your  little  star  of  blue, 
Some  little  rootlets  reaching  down — 
That's  all  there  is  of  you. 


[  12  ] 


"You'd  not  add  much  to  my  bouquet 

Of  blossoms  such  a  host, 
So  little  flower,  you'd  better  stay 
Where  you  are  needed  most. 

"The  butterflies  and  roaming  bees 

Would  miss  you  were  you  gone. 
The  morning  wind  and  evening  breeze 
Would  sing  a  mournful  song." 

She  bade  the  little  flower  good-bye, 

And  slowly  went  her  way. 
"A  little  desert  flower  am  I," 
The  south  wind  heard  her  say. 

"So  many  times  I  wish  and  long 

For  privilege  to  stand, 
Among  the  gay  and  favored  throng, 
The  noblesse  of  the  land. 

"But  like  the  little  flower  of  blue, 

I  will  be  satisfied, 
To  stay  where  I  am  needed,  too, 
Valued  and  loved  beside." 


L  13  ] 


WAK  AND  "BBUWER"  JIM 

What  made  'em  shoot  my  bruvver, 

When  he  went  away  to  war? 
An*  can't  he  get  alive  again? 

Won't  he  come  home  no  more? 

I  can't  dig  in  the  sandpile, 

Nor  play  wif  this  big  ball; 
For  lumps  keep  comin'  in  my  froat — 

I  can't  be  glad  at  all. 

Aunt  Sarah  says  the  brave  mans 

Must  all  go  out  an'  fight. 
What  makes  'em  make  the  brave  mans  dead? 

Ain't  bein'  brave  all  right? 

I  needed  my  big  bruvver, 

'Cause  he  was  not  afraid. 
He  saw  the  snake  'at  tried  to  bite, 

An'  killed  it  wif  a  spade. 

An'  when  the  barn  burned  up  he  got 

The  horses  all  away, 
An'  saved  the  hired  man  'at  was 

A  sleepin*  in  the  hay. 

An*  when  it  rained  an'  thundered, 

An'  the  dark  was  awful  thick, 
He  went  an'  got  the  doctor 

When  little  Fred  was  sick. 

I  wish  we  had  some  apples, 

I  likes  'em  awful  well. 
Big  bruvver  used  to  buy  'em 

From  the  man  'at  comes  to  sell. 

An'  Fred  he  cries  for  lots  of  fings 

We  can't  get  at  the  store, 
'Cause  papa's  sick  and  bruvver, 

He  never  comes  no  more. 


When  bruvver  went  a-marchin', 
They  said,  "God  save  the  King!" 

Will  God  save  poor,  sick  papa,  too, 
An'  get  us  everyfing? 

An'  is  the  King  all  sorry, 
Wif  lumps  a-chokin'  him? 

Will  he  be  kind  and  good  to  us, 
Instead  of  Bruvver  Jim? 

I  wish  that  they  had  never  had 

This  wicked,  awful  war, 
For  if  I  cry  forever, 

Jim  won't  come  home  no  more. 


TIGHT-WAD 

Some  people  are  afraid  of  snakes, 

Some  tremble  at  a  mouse; 
Some  fear  to  go  in  broad  daylight, 

Into  a  "haunted"  house. 
By  some  each  harmless  little  cur, 

A  mad  dog  fierce  is  styled, 
But  the  appellation  "Tight-wad," 

Scares  countless  thousands  wild. 

How  does  this  awful  "Tight-wad"  look 

As  through  the  world  he  goes? 
He  always  has  enough  to  eat, 

And  wears  good,  decent  clothes. 
He's  bright  and  clean  and  wholesome, 

And  he  seldom  wears  a  frown, 
And  he's  absolutely  never  broke, 

Nor  "all  in,  out  and  down." 

I  know  a  tight-wad  farmer, 

And  when  he  goes  to  town, 
They  don't  go  with  him  to  the  bar, 

Nor  tag  him  up  and  down. 
He  goes  about  his  business, 

He  pays  each  honest  debt; 
He  lets  nobody  "do"  him, 

And  he  never  makes  a  bet. 

If  a  fellow's  cold  or  hungry, 

He's  the  one  who  helps  him  out; 
But  he's  not  the  one  to  treat  the  crowd, 

And  throw  his  "plunks"  about. 
And  those  who  call  him  "Tight- wad" 

Are  just  the  chaps,  you  know, 
Who  want  to  have  a  good  time 

On  the  other  fellow's  dough. 


[  16 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

O,  what  a  lonely,  cheerless  day! 
My  little  boy  has  gone  away. 
I  didn't  think  so  soon  as  this 
His  presence  I'd  so  sorely  miss. 

I  watched  him  as  he  sat  astride 
His  little  pony,  saw  him  ride 
Along  the  snow-clad  trail  so  white, 
A-down  the  hill  and  out  of  sight. 

I  clear  the  breakfast  things  away; 
There  scarcely  touched  his  hotcakes  lay. 
To  catch  the  train  he'd  "sure  be  late" — 
He  must  have  had  an  hour  to  wait. 

The  little  sled  sits  idly  by, 
That  down  the  slope  is  wont  to  fly; 
His  pony  wanders  up  the  lane, 
Across  the  field  and  back  again. 

His  pigeons,  sitting  in  a  row 
Upon  the  barn  roof  watched  him  go ; 
They  seem  to  miss  the  little  man, 
Who  fed  them  oft  from  out  his  hand. 

'Tis  not  as  though  he'd  gone  to  roam 
Afar  and  leave  his  mountain  home. 
He  loves  each  pine  and  living  thing, 
And  when  school  closes  in  the  spring, 

My  bonny  boy  once  more  will  be 
Climbing  his  native  hills  with  me; 
Picking  the  lovely  mountain  flowers 
To  while  away  the  summer  hours. 


GIVE  THE  DEVIL  HIS  DUE 

O,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you, 

That  you  didn't  give  the  devil  his  due? 

It's  bad  enough  that  he's  black  and  fierce, 

With  proverbial  pitchfork  ready  to  pierce 

The  hapless  youth  or  the  grown  up  man, 

Or  anybody  he  possibly  can. 

On  Sunday  you  sneeze  with  a  big  "che-heek!" 

"The  devil  will  chase  you  the  whole  of  the  week." 

The  devil  does  this,  and  the  devil  does  that, 

And  the  devil  is  sure  in  the  big  black  cat, 

That  rides  through  the  air  on  the  witch's  broom, 

Or  meows  at  night  in  a  lonely  room. 

You  are  always  afraid  that  he's  after  you, 

And  that  "fear  hath  torment"  is  certainly  true. 

Keep  busy  loving  your  friends  and  foes, 

And  doing  for  those  who  have  cares  and  woes, 

The  devil  will  keep  in  the  background  far, 

And  will  let  you  alone  wherever  you  are. 

For  the  time  when  the  devil  gets  after  you, 

Is  when  you  have  nothing  good  to  do. 

Many  things  are  wrong,  both  great  and  small, 

That  are  not  the  fault  of  the  devil  at  all. 

His  Satanic  majesty  did  not  exist, 

When  Neptune  and  Venus  were  put  on  the  list 

With  the  greater  planets  and  small  ones,  too, 

That  are  bound  to  influence  me  and  you. 

It  doesn't  take  somebody  over-wise, 

If  he  will  but  open  his  ears  and  eyes, 

To  see  that  good  people  may  not  agree, 

Though  conscientious  they  both  may  be. 

This  fact  of  science  you  cannot  deride — 

That  the  old  moon  causes  the  ocean's  tide; 

And  if  the  ocean,  so  great  and  grand, 

Will  rise  and  fall  at  the  moon's  command, 

Why  shouldn't  such  atoms  as  you  and  me, 

Influenced  by  the  planets  be? 

When  the  dear  little  children  are  peevish  and  cross, 

And  seemingly  do  not  want  you  for  a  boss, 

Don't  say  it's  the  devil,  but  cause  them  to  laugh 


By  putting  them  into  a  good,  warm  bath. 

When  you're  nervous  and  cranky  and  blue  yourself, 

Don't  credit  the  devil,  but  look  to  your  health. 

Fresh  air  and  contentment,  good-will  to  mankind, 

Will  leave  all  the  devils  in  hades  behind. 

And  when  your  friends  censure  and  misunderstand, 

Don't  say  that  the  devil  leads  them  by  the  hand; 

But  that  Jupiter,  Saturn,  Uranus,  or  Mars, 

Or  the  big  Milky  Way,  with  its  millions  of  stars, 

Cause  antagonistic  their  feelings  to  be. 

Sentimental  and  sensible  doctrine,  you  see. 

Don't  hate  the  poor  devil;  feel  sad  for  his  fate, 

Though  Christ  said  resist  him,  He  never  meant  hate. 

If  you  hate  the  devil,  you  hate  the  man 

Whom  you  think  is  ruled  by  his  command. 

And  as  this  old  world  you  meander  through, 

Be  sure  to  give  the  devil  his  due. 


L  iw  J 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  FAEM 

Poor  little  kitty,  I  feel  so  sad 

'Cause  you're  hurted  an'  hungry  an'  cold, 
An'  your  fur's  so  rough  an'  your  bones  so  sharp, 

An'  it  makes  you  look  so  old. 
Kitties  ought  to  be  fat  an'  soft  an'  sleek, 

But  I  love  you  just  the  same; 
An'  I  can't  love  the  people  that  treat  you  mean, 

An'  make  you  all  sick  an'  lame. 

You  couldn't  get  any  mouses  at  all 
'Cause  the  granary  was  all  shut  tight, 

An'  they  didn't  give  you  a  fing  to  eat- 
Not  a  wee  little,  measly  bite. 

Then  they  kicked  your  stomach  an'  hurted  you  bad, 
'Cause  you  stole  a  wee  piece  of  meat ; 

An'  I  know  God  intended  for  kitties  to  have 
Milk  to  drink  an'  somefing  to  eat. 

I  don't  like  to  live  on  the  farm  at  all, 

'Cause  the  animals  ain't  happy  here; 
The  horses  get  kicked  an'  whipped  an'  'bused, 

An'  I  think  it's  awful  queer, 
'Cause  they  work  so  hard  an'  are  'ist  as  good, 

An'  so  are  the  cows  an'  sheep; 
But  they  don't  have  water  an'  feed  enough, 

An'  no  warm  place  to  sleep. 

I'll  live  in  the  city  when  I'm  a  man, 

Tho'  the  farm  is  best  for  me, 
So  I  won't  be  mean  to  the  horses  an'  cows, 

'Cause  I  won't  have  none,  you  see. 
I'll  get  me  a  great  big  automobile, 

With  no  feelin's  that  I  can  harm, 
An'  when  folks  ask  I  can  tell  'em  why 

Some  boys  don't  stay  on  the  farm. 


[  20  ] 


BUKY  ME  UNDEK  THE  ELMS 

Out  into  the  world  he  decided  to  roam, 
Saying  farewell  to  father,  to  mother  and  home. 
He  wanted  no  counsel,  no  mother's  advice, 
For  fame  and  a  fortune  he'd  win  in  a  trice. 

His  fond  mother  wept  as  she  bade  him  good-bye, 
But  he  passed  from  her  presence  without  e'en  a  sigh; 
And  down  through  the  orchard  and  up  the  old  lane, 
She  watched  him,  her  heart  full  of  lingering  pain. 

O,  little  he  dreamed,  as  he  traversed  that  day 

The  road  to  the  city  some  distance  away, 

That  the  shabby  old  farm  house  and  mother  so  plain, 

Would  shelter  and  soothe  him  in  sickness  and  shame. 

So  bright  seemed  the  morning  that  even  the  breeze, 
Swinging  gently  the  songsters  that  sat  in  the  trees, 
Whispered  softly  of  liberty,  freedom  and  wealth, 
Of  love  and  of  luxury,  pleasure  and  health. 

His  friends  in  the  city  were  jolly  and  gay — 
They  squandered  his  money  and  led  him  away 
From  honor  and  virtue,  then  left  him  alone, 
Besotted  and  sick,  but  ashamed  to  go  home. 

One  day  as  the  snow  whirled  in  gusts  through  the  street, 
With  a  brain  dazed  and  reeling,  with  nothing  to  eat, 
A  wreck  of  young  manhood,  most  pitiful  sight, 
He  was  fast  being  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  white. 

A  farmer  drove  by  in  an  old-fashioned  sleigh — 
"Whoa,  Dexter!    Whoa,  Pacer!    What's  that  in  your  way? 
A  man,  if  I  live!     O,  my  God,  'tis  my  son! 
So  faint  and  exhausted,  so  addled  by  rum!" 

He  took  him  once  more  to  the  home  he  had  left, 
Where  mother  so  patient,  with  fingers  so  deft, 
Watched  by  his  bedside,  with  hopes  that  were  vain, 
For  the  health  he  had  forfeited  ne'er  came  again. 

"Dear  mother,"  he  faltered,  "God  pardons  my  sin. 
O,  can  you  forgive  the  disgrace  I  have  been? 
I  love  the  old  farm,  but  alas!  'tis  too  late; 
So  bury  me  under  the  elms  by  the  gate." 


[  21  ] 


THE  SWEET  AND  THE  BITTER 

I  heard  a  sweet  bird  in  the  gloaming, 

Singing  its  evening  song. 
Its  happy  notes  rang  through  the  stillness, 

"O,  nothing  is  missing  or  wrong; 
My  mate  and  our  nestlings  so  cozy 

Are  at  rest  in  our  nest  in  the  tree, 
The  whole  world  is  gorgeous  and  rosy, 

Our  lives  are  so  joyous  and  free." 

But  I  thought  of  the  bird  on  the  willow — 

No  song  warbles  out  of  his  throat, 
No  ecstasy  swells  in  his  bosom, 

I  hear  but  a  faint  little  note 
So  plaintive,  so  woeful,  so  bitter, 

Such  anguish  he  cannot  express, 
For  dead  are  his  mate  and  their  nestlings — 

Destroyed  in  their  beautiful  nest. 

I  saw  a  sweet  girl  in  the  garden 

Plucking  roses  at  setting  of  sun, 
To  beguile  the  still  hours  of  the  evening, 

When  her  tasks  of  the  day  were  all  done. 
The  sprays  that  she  clipped  from  the  bushes, 

With  beauty  and  fragrance  were  rife, 
Like  the  dreams  and  the  hopes  of  the  maiden 

In  the  beautiful  spring-time  of  life. 

But  I  thought  of  the  girl  in  the  factory, 

The  slave  of  the  spindle  and  wheel, 
As  she  grinds  out  her  life  for  a  pittance, 

With  no  one  to  care  for  her  weal. 
The  hot,  stifling  air  of  the  sweat-shop, 

The  succession  of  wearisome  days, 
Bring  no  hope  of  aught  but  the  trifle 

That  the  owner  and  manager  pays. 


[  22  ] 


I  saw  a  dear  boy  going  homeward 

From  the  field  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
Where  at  work  side  by  side  with  his  father, 

He  was  shocking  the  sweet-scented  hay. 
His  gay  whistle  stirred  the  pure  ether, 

As  briskly  he  trudged  by  the  side 
Of  the  cheerful  and  sensible  farmer, 

Whose  boy  was  his  hope  and  his  pride. 

But  I  thought  of  the  boy  in  the  prison, 

His  youthful  life  blotted  and  stained, 
For  crime  by  some  other  promoted— 

By  unfeeling  justice  arraigned; 
Shut  away  from  the  air  and  the  sunlight, 

The  monotonous,  maddening  grind 
Will  leave  for  so  long  as  life  lingers, 

Their  impress  on  body  and  mind. 

Sing  on,  little  bird,  in  the  twilight! 

Cheer  the  world  with  your  song  while  you  may! 
Be  happy,  dear  girl  in  the  garden, 

And  the  boy  who  is  tossing  the  hay. 
But  remember  the  girl  at  the  spindle, 

The  boy  in  the  gloom  of  the  cell, 
And  when  for  yourselves  you  are  planning, 

Take  a  thought  for  their  welfare  as  well. 


[  23  ] 


OUR  LITTLE  ONES 

Sweet  innocents  that  come  to  bless  our  lives — 
Without  their  presence  is  no  home  complete. 

Our  daily  prayer  should  be  for  wisdom  rare 
To  guide  o'er  untried  ways  the  little  feet. 

We  love  each  tiny,  dainty  finger-nail, 

Each  silken  hair  that  crowns  the  little  head. 

With  joy  we  watch  the  dimples  come  and  go, 
And  smiles  that  o'er  the  baby  features  spread. 

We  wonder  as  we  watch  the  little  hands, 
And  feel  the  tiny  fingers  clasp  our  own, 

What  will  in  future  years  their  life  work  be, 
When  to  their  full  proportions  they  have  grown? 

While  thinking  thus,  with  such  solicitude, 
Upon  the  future  welfare  of  our  own, 

We  would  remember  there  are  little  babes 
Left  friendless  in  this  cruel  world  alone, 

Without  a  mother's  tender,  watchful  care, 
Or  e'en  a  friend,  save  one  who  dwells  above, 

Tho'  they,  as  well  as  our  sweet  babes,  were  once 
The  objects  of  a  mother's  fondest  love. 

Since  Death  has  claimed  those  mothers  for  his  own, 
While  we  are  spared  the  joys  of  life  and  love, 

Let  us  the  cry  of  helpless  childhood  heed, 
And  thus  our  gratitude  to  heaven  prove. 


[  24  J 


THE  EXOKBITANT  PRICE 

The  dreary  night  was  drawing  to  its  close, 

But  long  before  the  sun  in  splendor  rose, 

A  little  woman,  haggard-faced  and  pale, 

With  drooping  shoulders  marking  her  as  frail, 

Was  sewing  by  the  waxing  morning  light; 

Her  eyes  had  not  been  closed  throughout  the  night. 

Then  soft  she  walked  across  the  wooden  floor, 
And  opened  carefully  a  bed-room  door. 
"Mildred,"  she  said,  "come  now  and  dress  the  boys, 
And  don't  wake  little  sister  with  the  noise. 
She's  been  so  sick  all  night,  the  precious  one, 
Her  cough's  so  bad,  I  fear  the  worst  will  come. 
Now,  daughter,  come,  you  must  be  helping  me. 
I  look  so  pale,  you'll  make  a  cup  of  tea? 
There  is  no  tea.    We  must  not  borrow,  dear, 
We'll  not  be  able  to  repay,  I  fear. 

"I'll  make  the  best  of  it;  now  I  must  sew, 
While  little  sister  sleeps;  tonight,  you  know, 
That  lady  wants  her  evening  dress  to  wear, 
And  I  must  finish  it,  with  haste  and  care. 
O,  there!    The  baby  has  another  spell 
Of  coughing.   Yes,  I  know  it  very  well — 
That  she  is  getting  worse  from  day  to  day. 
If  I  could  do  more  work  and  get  more  pay, 
I'd  get  for  her  some  food  more  nourishing; 
I'd  wash  or  sew  or  do  most  anything. 

"Yes,  babe,  I  know  that  coughing  hurts  you  so. 
Come,  Mildred,  carry  sister  to  and  fro. 
I  know  your  back's  too  slender  for  the  task, 
I'm  sure  that  it  will  weaken  you  at  last. 
But  maybe  better  times  some  day  will  come — 
The  boys  grow  up  and  bring  their  wages  home. 
I  hope  saloons  will  all  be  closed  by  then, 
For  they're  the  ruin  of  so  many  men. 


[  25  ] 


'Yes,  dear,  I  know  it  is  the  first  of  May, 
And  you're  entitled  to  a  holiday. 
You  surely  need  the  pleasant,  outdoor  air, 
But  I  have  not  five  cents  to  pay  your  fare. 

Besides,  what  could  I  do  if  you  were  gone? 
The  sewing  goes  so  slow;  the  day  wears  on. 
Dear  Mildred,  I  don't  know  what  I  would  do 
In  all  my  trouble  were  it  not  for  you." 


Then  resolutely  choking  tears  and  sighj 

For  her  young  daughter's  sake  she  dried  her  eyes, 

And  to  her  task  her  energies  she  bent, 

Using  the  strength  that  desperation  lent. 

Night  came  again,  and  with  the  setting  sun, 
By  arduous  over-strain  the  dress  was  done. 
"O,  mamma,  when  the  lady  comes  tonight, 
May  I  tell  her  of  little  sister's  plight? 
She's  rich,  and  she  might  pay  you  more,  you  know, 
If  she  knew  baby's  sick  and  coughing  so." 

"No,  Mildred,  take  the  boys  and  go  away. 
You'll  have  at  least  a  little  while  to  play. 
The  boys  have  nothing  good  to  wear;  you  see, 
She  mustn't  know  we're  in  such  poverty. 
If  she  should  see  our  want,  I  am  afraid 
She'd  go  elsewhere  to  have  her  dresses  made. 

"Besides,  she'd  ask  about  your  father,  dear. 
We  couldn't  tell  her  why  he  is  not  here. 
She's  never  felt  the  cold,  she  could  not  know 
How  terrible  it  was  for  us  to  go 
Without  a  fire  that  cold  December  night, 
When,  for  the  baby's  life,  we  had  to  fight. 

"I'm  sure  that  she  could  never  understand 
Why  he  took  life  and  liberty  in  hand, 
And  went  and  stole  the  coal  for  us  to  burn, 
Because  he  had  no  way  the  price  to  earn. 
I'm  sure  she'd  think  your  father  was  to  blame — 


[  26  ] 


Not  the  police,  who  shot  and  made  him  lame. 

If  I  could  but  have  taken  care  of  him, 

Have  dressed  and  bandaged  up  the  injured  limb, 

He  might  have  suffered  less  of  weary  pain, 

Might  have,  some  day,  been  well  and  strong  again ; 

But  with  poor  food  and  care,  in  prison  there, 

He  never  can  again  life's  burdens  bear. 

"  'Twas  such  an  awful  price  he  had  to  pay, 
For  carrying  a  sack  of  coal  away; 
And  we  must  pay  still  more  all  down  the  years 
In  over-work,  in  sickness,  pain  and  tears. 
Here  comes  the  lady  now,  so  run  away, 
And  I'll  call  you  and  brothers  presently. 


'Here,  Mildred,  go  and  pay  this  on  the  rent; 
I'm  sorry  that  it  will  not  leave  a  cent. 
She  didn't  pay  what  she  agreed  she  would ; 
She  said  the  work  was  anything  but  good. 

'But  dry  your  tears,  dear  children,  down  the  street 

Comes  our  good  angel  with  her  tired  feet, 

And  smiles  and  tears  and  sympathy  and,  too, 

A  dish  of  berries  ripe  for  each  of  you." 

'Twas  just  a  neighbor  from  across  the  way; 

She'd  labored  in  the  laundry  all  the  day 

And  came  as  usual  at  even-tide, 

With  these,  her  scanty  earnings,  to  divide. 

Some  people  strive  for  honors,  some  for  fame; 
Some  barter  gold  to  win  a  lordly  name, 
To  leadership  and  prestige  some  aspire — 
Ambitious  are  to  ever  soar  still  higher. 
Some  train  the  voice  to  most  ethereal  flights, 
Some  on  the  mount  of  knowledge  pose  as  lights ; 
But  where  the  rays  of  heaven's  searchlights  fall, 
This  humble  laundry  maid  outshines  them  all. 


[  27  ] 


IN  A  HUNDRED  YEARS 

The  world  will  not  know  in  hundred  years 

What  have  been  your  beliefs,  your  doubts  or  fears— 

Whether  you  laughed  or  shed  bitter  tears. 

It  will  matter  not  how  your  hair  was  dressed; 
If  you  kept  up  in  fashion  with  the  best, 
Or  went  to  the  theater  with  the  rest. 

It  will  matter  not  if  a  friend  has  slighted — 
Has  done  you  a  wrong  that  has  not  been  righted, 
Or  your  aspirations  have  been  blighted. 

But  the  words  you  speak  and  the  deeds  you  do, 
Though  your  heart  be  cruel,  or  kind  and  true, 
Will  live  for  centuries  after  you. 

Lives  may  be  happy,  or  dull  and  sad, 

People  be  good,  or  go  to  the  bad 

Through  the  influence  over  them  you  have  had. 

Some  may  be  sent  to  the  prison  cell, 
Others  be  sickly  who  might  have  been  well, 
On  account  of  your  influence.    Who  can  tell? 

So  love  humanity,  great  and  small, 
Don't  say  the  words  you  would  fain  recall, 
But  always  do  what  is  best  for  all. 


[  28  ] 


MY  DREAM  OF  THE  WAK 

.Last  night  in  my  dreams  I  was  over  in  Europe — 

I  saw  in  the  trenches  the  dead  soldiers  lie; 
I  saw  on  the  battle-fields,  sodden  and  gory, 

Pale  faces  upturned  to  the  bleak  winter  sky. 

And  I  thought  as  I  looked  on  this  sad  desolation, 

Can  no  consolation,  no  respite  be  found? 
For  I  never  could  see  that  fame,  honor  or  glory 

Could  recompense  men  buried  under  the  ground. 

I  noticed  the  face  of  a  stalwart  young  Cossack— 
The  high,  noble  brow  and  the  chin  firm  and  square. 

These  seemed  to  bespeak  him  a  foe  to  oppression, 
A  champion  of  those  bowed  with  labor  and  care. 

I  saw  in  my  dream  the  Czar's  mighty  dominion, 
The  hand  of  the  law  unrelenting  and  sure. 

'Tis  better  for  him  than  the  mines  of  Siberia- 
Death,  rather  than  banishment,  he  could  endure. 

Lying  close  to  the  Russian  a  young  Irish  laddie, 
In  the  clearly  cut  features  and  bonny  brown  hair, 

I  recognized  one  I  had  known  as  a  neighbor, 
And  I  shuddered  to  see  him  so  cold  lying  there. 

Good  hearted  and  honest,  obliging  and  truthful, 

A  typical  son  of  the  Emerald  Isle; 
But  the  nations  need  revenue  from  the  rum  traffic, 

This  brave  son  of  Erin  strong  drink  could  beguile. 

And  'twere  better  to  die  at  behest  of  the  monarchs, 
Who  quarrel  when  compromise  bloodshed  would  save, 

Than  to  live  soiled  and  smirched  by  foul  liquor's  pollution, 
And  die  at  the  last  as  King  Alcohol's  slave. 

So  on  down  the  line,  Frenchman,  Briton  and  Balkan, 
Still  faces  bore  record  of  master-class  greed ; 

The  war  for  existence,  the  fight  for  a  pittance — 
The  struggle  is  over,  at  last  they  are  freed. 


What,  then!   Shall  men  welcome  grim  war's  desolation 
To  free  them  from  hunger,  oppression  and  pain? 

Nay,  rather  let  reason  and  justice  and  temperance, 
And  brotherly  kindness  and  equity  reign. 

Philanthropist,  stop  running  'round  with  that  basket! 

Not  one  crumb  for  each  of  the  millions  who  faint, 
Or  are  driven  insane  by  the  stress  of  their  labors, 

Or  perish  unaided  without  a  complaint. 

O,  Christian,  get  busy!     Stop  dreaming  of  heaven! 

Get  on  the  aggressive,  forget  your  defense! 
Your  weapon,  the  ballot — defeat  the  oppressor; 

Your  civic  adviser,  just  good,  common  sense. 


[  30  ] 


WAITING  FOE  THE  DAWN 

In  the  dusk  of  early  morning, 

I  am  waiting  for  the  dawn ; 
All  impatient  I  am  growing, 

As  the  time  drags  slowly  on. 

Waiting,  but  I  dare  not  slumber, 
Lest  the  morning  dawn  apace, 

And  I  miss  the  train  at  daybreak, 
For  there's  not  a  moment's  grace. 

At  the  station  now  I'm  waiting, 
Signs  of  morning  streak  the  sky, 

And  I  hear  a  distant  rumbling — 
Soon  a  train  comes  rushing  by. 

In  the  opposite  direction 

It  is  bound,  and  still  I  wait. 
Now  a  whistle  shrill  is  sounding, 

But  'tis  just  a  rumbling  freight. 

So  I  take  my  pen  and  paper, 
For  my  oracle  says  "Write;" 

And  before  I  realize  it, 

Here's  the  train  and  broad  daylight. 

While  we're  waiting  for  the  dawning 

Of  a  brighter,  better  day, 
When  the  roaring  of  the  cannon 

And  the  smoke  shall  pass  away, 

We  must  work — we  cannot  slumber 
As  the  days  and  weeks  drag  on — 

Try  to  light  this  darkest  hour 
That  comes  just  before  the  dawn. 

Warnings  sound,  and  lights  are  flashing, 
And  we  think  the  time  draws  near. 

Hope  and  faith  are  intermingled 
With  misgiving,  doubt  and  fear. 


[  31  ] 


Military  tact  and  genius, 

Armies  drilled  and  furnished  well, 

Never  will  these  questions  settle — 
Will  but  prove  that  "War  is  hell." 

Rumored  plans  of  arbitration 

Are  the  streakings  of  the  light, 
That  give  promise  of  the  morning 

At  the  end  of  darkest  night. 

Shall  the  day  dawn  bright  and  cloudless, 

Or  will  the  horizon  bear 
Clouds  so  ominous  and  dusky, 

Marring  all  that's  good  and  fair? 

Cease  to  talk  of  Christian  warfare. 

Teach  that  cruelty  and  fight, 
Relics  are  of  savage  ages — 

Flags  and  drums  don't  make  them  right. 

Shoulder-straps  and  brazen  buttons, 

Military  pomp  and  pride, 
Stained  with  blood  and  smirched  with  murder, 

Want  and  woe  and  suicide, 

Don't  appeal  to  those  who're  longing 

For  a  more  enlightened  day. 
Ere  it  comes  these  brutal  customs 

Must  forever  pass  away. 


[  32  l 


THE  OLD  BRONCHO'S  STOKY 

The  December  wind  was  blowing 

O'er  the  Uncompahgre  hills. 
Snow-clad  was  the  fertile  valley, 

Ice-bound  were  the  mountain  rills. 
Snug  and  cozy  sat  the  farmer 

By  his  blazing  pinion  fire; 
Lazily  he  watched  the  smoke  wreaths 

From  his  pipe  curl  high  and  higher. 

And  he  felt  no  pangs  of  conscience 
As  he  sat  there  snug  and  warm, 

Tho'  he'd  left  a  poor,  old  work-horse 
Standing  out  in  cold  and  storm. 

Shrill  and  loud  the  north  wind  whistled 
O'er  the  frozen  country  bleak, 

And  the  shivering,  suffering  creature 
Thought  these  words,  he  could  not  speak 

'North  wind,  do  have  mercy  on  me, 

For  my  master  shows  me  none. 
To  deserve  such  cruel  treatment, 

I  would  know  what  I  have  done. 
Twenty  years  I've  labored  for  him, 

Many  a  furrow  I  have  plowed; 
Oft  he's  let  me  thirst  for  water — 

Scanty  food  was  I  allowed. 

'Far  on  many  a  weary  journey 

I  have  borne  him  safe  and  sound, 
Yet  when  I  was  worn  and  jaded 

I  no  mercy  with  him  found. 
With  his  spurs  my  flanks  he  goaded, 

Cruelly  he  jerked  the  rein, 
As  I  bore  him  swiftly  onward, 

Over  valley,  hill  and  plain. 


"I  recall  a  celebration 

Once  upon  the  glorious  'Fourth;' 
Men  did  honor  to  our  Nation 

Torturing  the  helpless  horse. 
'Vicious  bronchos,'  as  they  called  us, 

Were  selected  for  the  sport, 
But  the  vice  was  in  the  rider, 

Plain  to  see,  and  not  the  horse. 

"They  must  ride  the  bucking  broncho- 
How  they  tortured,  spurred  and  jerked. 

For  the  prize  that  had  been  offered, 
Each  one  like  a  demon  worked. 

Blood  was  dripping  from  our  bridles, 
While  our  flanks  with  gore  were  red ; 

I  wonder  that  a  bolt  from  heaven 
Did  not  strike  the  villains  dead. 

"How  I  suffer  now  from  hunger, 

No  one  knows,  or  cares  to  know. 
All  the  dried-up  range  afforded, 

Now  is  covered  deep  with  snow. 
E'en  for  water  I  must  suffer — 

Frozen  are  the  ditches  all. 
Hungry,  thirsty,  cold  and  suffering, 

No  one  heeds  my  plaintive  call." 

The  old  broncho  groaned  and  trembled, 

For  his  griefs  were  almost  o'er. 
On  the  frozen  ground  he  stretched  him— 

Thought  about  his  cares  no  more. 
Mid  the  sleet  and  snow  next  morning, 

That  upon  the  ground  were  spread, 
There  the  cruel-hearted  rancher 

Found  the  faithful  creature  dead. 


[  34  ] 


THE  NEWSBOY'S  LAMENT 

I  just  get  tired  of  livin', 

Though  I'm  only  ten  years  old. 

The  summer  sun's  so  scorchin', 
An'  the  winter  wind's  so  cold. 

I'm  sick  of  sellin'  papers, 
An'  there's  nothin'  else  to  do, 

An'  my  mother's  poor  an'  weakly, 
An'  my  little  sister,  too. 

It's  sure  hard  on  a  feller 
To  tramp  the  streets  all  day, 

An'  then  to  go  to  night-school, 
While  other  fellers  play. 

We  newsboys  make  a  business 

Of  helpin'  fellers  out — 
I  went  without  my  lunch  today 

To  help  Bill  on  his  route. 

We  were  passin'  by  the  windows, 
Filled  with  splendid  things  to  eat; 

We  never  have  no  dainties, 
Nor  no  butter,  eggs  nor  meat. 

We  get  so  tired  of  taters, 

An'  the  apples  looked  so  good; 

We  never  could  afford  them, 

Though  we  always  wished  we  could. 

An'  at  last  we  couldn't  stand  it — 
Tho'  we  knew  it  was  a  sin, 

We  took  some  big,  red  apples, 
An'  the  cop,  he  run  us  in. 

That  Adolph  Hill  was  walkin' 

Along  the  street  one  day, 
A-going  to  the  concert 

To  hear  the  music  play. 


C  35  ] 


An'  he  laughed  at  us  poor  fellers, 
'Cause  our  clothes  were  all  in  rags, 

So  we  licked  him,  an'  the  copper 
Jerked  us  up  an'  called  us  "vags." 

We  should  be  kind  an'  honest, 

An'  grow  to  be  good  men, 
'Cause  the  feller  that  is  crooked 

Gets  landed  in  the  pen. 

But  it's  mighty  hard,  I  tell  you, 
When  you're  cold  an'  hungry,  too, 

An'  you  haven't  any  rain-coat, 
Nor  a  glove  nor  overshoe. 

You  get  so  tired  of  sufferin', 
With  no  better  things  in  sight, 

That  you  steal  an'  swear  an'  "hookey," 
'Cause  you  can't  do  what  is  right. 

One  day  I  took  some  oranges, 

An'  I  heard  a  lady  say, 
"Look  there!"  to  a  policeman, 

But  I  made  my  get-away. 

She  was  dressed  in  silks  an'  satins, 
An'  I  heard  her  tell  the  cop, 

That  I'd  surely  go  to  prison, 
'Less  those  wicked  ways  I'd  stop. 

Then  she  squeezed  her  little  poodle, 
An'  went  on  down  the  street; 

Her  little  dog  don't  have  to  steal 
To  get  good  things  to  eat. 

I  wonder  how  she'd  like  it 

If  she  would  have  to  be, 
So  tired  an'  cold  an'  hungry 

An'  discouraged,  too,  like  me. 

But  I  'spose  no  one  can  help  it — 
If  they  could  they  surely  would, 

For  the  church  folks  always  tell  us 
That  they  want  us  to  be  good. 


[  36  ] 


LITTLE  JIM'S  CHRISTMAS 

Alone  with  face  so  pale  and  sad, 

Sat  weary,  little  Jim; 
No  luxuries  to  make  him  glad, 

No  Christmas  joys  for  him; 
No  mother's  kiss  nor  fond  embrace, 

Nor  voice  so  sweet  and  mild — 
Despair  had  marked  the  little  face 

Of  this  poor,  crippled  child. 

Along  the  street  a  couple  passed, 

A  little  boy  they  led. 
''I'm  tired  of  every  kind  of  toys," 

The  little  fellow  said. 
"O,  papa,  see  that  little  boy; 

Say,  let  us  go  inside, 
Ask  him  what  he'd  like  to  have," 
The  little  fellow  cried. 

Into  the  dingy  room  they  stepped, 

A  dark  and  cheerless  place. 
Such  wistfulness  they  ne'er  beheld 

As  in  that  little  face. 
"Just  tell  us  for  a  Christmas  gift 

What  you  would  have  us  bring." 
"I'd  like  a  home,"  the  child  replied, 
"The  best  of  anything." 

They  sought  the  drunken  father  then- 
He  quickly  gave  consent, 

So  to  this  lonely,  cheerless  life 
Came  joy  and  glad  content. 

No  nobler  deed  could  crown  the  day 
On  which  our  Lord  was  born — 

A  home  and  parents'  love  alway 
For  this  poor  child  forlorn. 


[  37  ] 


THE  BOY  WITH  THE  SMILING  EYES 

O,  the  bonny  boy  with  the  smiling  eyes, 

Have  you  seen  him  yet  today? 
If  you're  feeling  despondent  the  sight  of  him 

Will  drive  your  blues  away. 
He  brings  good  cheer  on  the  darkest  day, 
He's  never  a  nuisance,  nor  in  the  way — 
The  boy  with  the  smiling  eyes. 

Go  where  he  will  among  mankind, 

His  welcome  is  always  sure. 
The  hardest  trial  or  toughest  lot 

He  cheerfully  will  endure. 
He  boosts  the  traveler  along  the  way, 
By  the  helpful  things  he  will  do  and  say — 
The  boy  with  the  smiling  eyes. 

His  is  not  the  patronizing  grin 

Of  the  office-seeking  bum; 
Nor  yet  the  smile  of  the  man  who  tries 

To  drown  his  cares  in  rum. 
But  'tis  jolly  cheer  and  genuine  mirth, 
Which  means  good-will  to  all  on  earth, 

That  beams  from  the  smiling  eyes. 

But  if  some  story  of  human  woe 

Our  hero  should  chance  to  hear, 
You  might  behold  in  the  shining  depths, 

A  glistening,  manly  tear. 
O,  the  soul  that  is  hidden  beneath  those  orbs, 
What  love  and  sympathy  it  absorbs, 

And  reflects  in  those  shining  eyes. 


THE  BROKEN  WING 

Dear  pigeon  with  the  broken  wing, 
You're  such  a  woeful  little  thing. 
I  see  you  stand  so  wistful  by, 
And  watch  the  other  pigeons  fly. 

Then  hopelessly  you  look  around, 
And  flutter  swift  along  the  ground, 
You  gaze  so  longing  at  the  skies, 
And  then  again  you  try  to  rise. 

What  was  it  broke  your  little  wing? 
Some  cruel  boy  with  stone  and  sling? 
Or  did  some  accident  befall 
When  you  were  helpless,  young  and  small? 

The  boy  that  hurled  the  cruel  stone 
That  broke  your  little  pinion  bone, 
Would  sure  repent  if  he  could  see 
Your  constant,  daily  misery. 

The  wing  is  healed  and  does  not  pain, 
But  to  your  mind  time  and  again 
Comes  disappointment,  sharp  and  keen, 
And  bitter  anguish,  too,  I  ween. 

And  so  it  is  with  mortal  man — 
He  nurses  many  a  cherished  plan, 
That  to  perfection  he  would  bring, 
But  finds  he  has  a  broken  wing. 

So  oft  it  is  a  cruel  stone 

Has  wickedly  been  aimed  and  thrown ; 

He  gazes  longing  at  the  prize, 

But  finds  he's  powerless  to  rise. 

He  sees  the  masses  in  their  need, 
Held  down  by  prejudice  and  greed; 
And  yet  no  way  can  he  devise 
To  show  the  truth  to  blinded  eyes. 


[  39  ] 


As  through  the  wilderness  he  winds, 
The  path  to  Calvary  he  finds; 
And  in  Golgotha's  dreary  gloom 
His  hopes  are  buried  in  the  tomb. 

But  Christ's  compassion  cannot  die, 
Nor  in  the  grave  long  silent  lie; 
And  Jesus'  power  and  might  are  given, 
The  angel  says,  "Lo!  He  has  risen!" 

No  cruel  rock,  tho'  hurled  apace 
Can  ever  break  the  wings  of  faith. 
And  resurrected  hope  shall  soar, 
Hampered  by  doubts  and  fears  no  more. 

This  generation  would  not  pass 
'Till  all  were  free,  but  now,  alas! 
'Tis  as  it  was  in  Jesus'  time — 
They  trust  not,  but  demand  a  sign. 

No  more  would  rum  their  prospects  blight, 
Nor  brothers  die  in  cruel  fight, 
If  each,  one  vote  would  rightly  cast, 
The  slaves  would  all  be  free  at  last. 

The  power  that  breaks  the  chains  of  sin 
And  brings  the  wand'rer  home  again, 
Can  strike  the  shackles  from  the  slave — 
The  desperate,  starving  millions  save. 


[  40  ] 


THE  WINTER  WIND 

Moan  on,  ye  wintry  winds! 

Whistle  your  sad  refrain; 
You  tell  of  blighted  hopes, 

Of  efforts  all  in  vain. 
Sing  your  sad  requiem, 

Mourn  for  the  total  sum 
Of  golden  opportunities, 

That  never  more  will  come. 

Roar  through  the  rocking  pines; 

Sob  through  the  leafless  trees. 
How  different  your  refrain 

From  that  of  the  summer  breeze! 
It  whispers  of  love  and  home, 

Of  birds  in  a  leafy  nest, 
But  you  fill  the  heart  with  grief — 

The  mind  with  a  wild  unrest. 

You  tell  of  the  snow-clad  wastes, 

Where  cattle  search  in  vain 
For  shelter,  water  and  food, 

As  they  roam  o'er  the  dreary  plain. 
The  cruelty  and  the  greed 

Of  man  is  depicted  there, 
For  in  Nature's  store-house  wide 

There  is  plenty  for  all,  and  to  spare. 

In  the  darksome  hours  of  night 

You  wake  us  with  whistle  shrill, 
To  think  of  the  weary  slaves 

Of  factory,  mine  and  mill. 
They  toil  through  the  midnight  hours, 

They  shiver  with  chill  and  cold, 
While  plutocrat  bosses  sleep, 

And  dream  of  their  hoarded  gold. 


All  on  through  the  weary  years 

You  say  some  must  go  alone — 
Must  wipe  away  other's  tears, 

But  pay  no  heed  to  their  own. 
Perhaps  it  is  better  thus, 

For  surely  the  good  Lord  knows, 
When  people  are  happy  themselves, 

They  forget  about  others'  woes. 

O,  wind  of  the  wintry  night, 

You  cannot  always  blow, 
And  carry  your  burden  white, 

Of  cold  and  drifting  snow; 
And  hearts  that  are  heavy  and  sad, 

Some  surcease  will  have  from  pain, 
When  the  songs  of  the  birds  are  glad, 

When  summer  comes  again. 


[  42  ] 


KHYMES  FOE  THE  FAKMEK 

(Written  in  Colorado  on  an  occasion  of  the  first  snow 
storm  of  the  season.) 

Come,  farmers,  all  with  one  accord, 

If  stable  room  you  lack, 
Get  busy  with  the  straw  and  poles, 

The  wire  and  gunny-sack. 

For  summer's  gone  and  autumn's  fled — 

The  air's  no  longer  warm, 
And  helpless  creatures  look  to  you, 

For  shelter  from  the  storm. 

The  anxious  cow  looks  all  around, 

A  good  wind-break  to  find; 
But  lumber's  piled  beside  the  barn — 

A  wagon  stands  behind. 

Clear  them  away,  and  give  the  cow 

The  preference  instead; 
She  ought  to  have  a  stable,  warm — 

At  any  rate  a  shed. 

i 

That  little  calf,  penned  up  alone, 
In  growth  would  pay  you  back, 

If  o'er  that  opening  you'd  nail 
A  good,  thick  gunny-sack. 

Those  pigs,  so  damp  and  cold,  would  prove 

The  truth  of  Nature's  law, 
If  you  would  let  them  snuggle 

In  a  nice,  thick  bed  of  straw. 

The  faithful  dog  that  guards  your  door — 

Give  him  a  box  and  bed, 
If  kennel  you  have  none,  and  see 

That  he  is  amply  fed. 


[  43  l 


That  aged  horse  you  feel  that  you 

Cannot  afford  to  feed, 
Then  let  a  kindly  bullet 

End  his  suffering  and  need. 

Don't  let  the  fowls  freeze  comb  and  toes, 

Exposed  to  cold  and  storm. 
The  hen  that  lays  the  golden  egg 

Is  fed  and  sheltered  warm. 

Even  the  wee  canary  needs 

A  little  extra  care — 
Wrap  up  his  cage  at  night  and  see 

That  he  has  seeds  to  spare. 

Don't  say  you  cannot  shelter  give, 

Because  the  price  you  lack; 
Get  busy  with  the  straw  and  poles, 

The  wire  and  gunny-sack. 

The  best  and  noblest  in  the  land — 
Most  prosperous,  too,  you'll  find, 

Are  those  who  to  the  helpless  are 
Considerate  and  kind. 


[  44  ] 


WOUNDED 

What  shall  I  do  with  you,  poor  little  bird? 

I  simply  cannot  decide, 
For  that  boy  with  a  gun  has  broken  your  leg, 

And  clipped  your  wing,  beside. 

Then  another  half-drowned  and  tortured  you, 
'Till  I  rescued  you,  cold  and  wet, 

And  I  stand  and  hold  you  for  half  an  hour, 
And  am  undecided  yet. 

I  stand  and  gaze  as  one  struck  dumb, 

With  horror  and  wonder,  too, 
That  civilized  boys  of  tender  years, 

Such  fiendish  things  could  do. 

Poor  little  bird,  the  fright  and  pain 
Have  rendered  you  desperate  quite; 

You  tremble  and  cling  with  your  little  claw 
To  my  hand  with  all  your  might. 

The  dear  little  children  crowd  around, 
With  tears  in  their  tender  eyes, 

Their  genuine  sorrow  and  deep  concern, 
Too  innocent  to  disguise. 

'O,  bring  it  home,  we'll  give  it  seeds, 
And  some  water  and  some  bread, 

And  gather  soft  grass  to  make  it  a  nest,'* 
One  dear  little  lassie  said. 

Sweet  little  angels,  they  do  their  best, 
But  nothing  on  earth  can  bring, 

The  missing  leg  to  its  place  again, 
Nor  heal  the  crippled  wing. 

The  cage  is  a  prison — it  looks  and  longs 

As  its  comrades  fly  and  sing ; 
O,  poor  little  bird,  it  is  doubly  hard 

To  die  in  the  joyous  spring. 


Do  we  wonder  the  earth  is  soaked  with  blood, 

That  wholesale  murder  is  rife, 
When  such  horrible  deeds  are  done  by  boys 

In  the  spring-time  of  their  life. 

And  what  shall  we  do  with  the  crippled  ones, 
Who  must  suffer  through  all  the  years? 

O,  how  can  we  comfort  their  broken  hearts, 
Or  dry  their  bitter  tears? 

The  kind  and  compassionate  of  the  earth, 

Must  ever  suffer  and  toil, 
To  try  to  undo  the  awful  work 

Of  those  who  murder  and  spoil. 

RHYMES  FOR  MOTHERS 

I  know  you'll  agree  with  me,  mother  and  wife, 
That  there's  nothing  so  precious  as  human  life; 
And  in  a  great  measure  you  hold  in  your  hand 
The  lives  of  your  dear  ones  for,  at  your  command, 
The  little  ones  breathe  either  fresh  air  or  bad — 
Your  moods  will  make  happy,  or  cause  to  be  sad, 
The  household  you  love  better  far  than  your  life, 
If  you  are  the  ideal  mother  and  wife. 

Your  troubles  are  many,  your  patience  is  tried — 

You  must  manage  and  plan,  love  and  labor  beside; 

You  are  jury  and  judge,  and  the  little  one's  plea 

Must  not  be  ignored,  for  he  plainly  can  see 

An  act  of  injustice.  A  punishment  rash 

Might  shatter  his  faith  with  a  terrible  crash. 

All  this  must  the  mother  consider  and  see, 

For  there's  health  for  the  household  in  sweet  harmony. 

In  training  the  children,  in  school  or  at  home, 
Experience  has  taught  that  occasions  will  come 
When  the  "big  stick"  is  needed  and  has  to  be  used, 
But  the  practice  of  whipping  should  not  be  abused. 
When  ready  to  whip,  put  yourself  in  the  place 
Of  the  childish  offender,  the  dear  little  face 
Will  appeal  to  your  tact  and  diplomacy  then — 
If  you  have  pondered  twice,  you  will  think  once  again. 

[   46   ] 


My  two-year-old  darling  I  chided  one  day, 
For  wading  in  water  while  out  at  her  play. 
She  said  sweetly  smiling,  my  love  to  enlist, 
"I  don't  need  to  be  whipped;  I  need  to  be  kissed." 
Don't  laugh  at  the  boy  when  he  sheds  a  few  tears, 
Since  he  was  a  baby  'tis  but  a  few  years. 
Fine  feelings  in  boys  are  not  fostered  enough — 
They  can  be  brave  and  daring  without  being  rough. 

And,  mother,  don't  let  your  dear,  young  daughter  wed, 
Without  a  fair  knowledge  of  making  good  bread; 
And  of  washing  the  clothes  and  ironing  them,  too, 
And  cooking  a  good  old  New  England  stew, 
As  well  as  of  making  good  candy  and  cake — 
Let  her  learn  all  this  for  her  own  sweet  sake. 
And  teach  the  girl  also  to  mend  and  to  sew, 
And  to  make  a  nice,  little  garden  grow. 

Don't  think  that  you'll  have  her  to  marry  rich, 
So  she'll  never  need  cook  nor  sew  a  stitch  ; 
For  riches,  like  many  other  good  things, 
Are  blessed  with  a  pair  of  ample  wings ; 
And  there's  nothing  so  trying,  it  seems  to  me, 
As  a  mother  just  learning  the  A,  B,  C, 
Of  household  work  when  wealth  has  fled, 
And  little  ones  have  to  be  clothed  and  fed. 

The  girl  may  know  how  to  subtract  and  divide 

Complex  and  compound,  do  equations  beside; 

She  may  parse  all  the  verbs,  and  decline  all  the  nouns, 

Describe  all  the  rivers,  locate  all  the  towns; 

Know  Caesar  and  Cicero  just  "like  a  book" — 

'Tis  not  so  important  as  learning  to  cook. 

For  "War  slays  his  millions,"  some  writer  has  said, 

"But  the  cook  her  ten  millions,  with  bad  food  and  bread.' 

But  in  spite  of  all  care,  and  of  love  in  the  home, 
Diseases  and  accidents  oftentimes  come. 
Cures  learned  from  experience,  I  give  to  you  here — 
They  are  harmless  and  good,  you  may  use  without  fear. 

Just  slippery  elm  bark  made  into  a  tea, 

And  then  freely  drank  is  a  good  remedy 

For  dropsy  as  well  as  for  kidney  disease — 

From  pain  and  from  danger  'twill  bring  a  surcease. 

[  47  ] 


With  neuralgia  in  feet  one  had  suffered  for  years — 
The  pain  so  severe  that  it  often  brought  tears, 
Snow  liniment  rubbed  a  half -hour  each  day, 
Inside  of  two  months  took  the  pain  all  away. 

A  teaspoon  of  salt,  of  hot  water  a  cup 
When  you  rise  in  the  morning,  if  you  will  drink  up, 
Will  cure  a  bad  stomach  in  just  a  few  weeks — 
Will  make  you  feel  fine,  put  a  flush  on  your  cheeks. 

For  a  burn  or  a  scald,  I  would  have  you  to  know, 
There  is  nothing  so  good  as  a  rich  biscuit  dough ; 
Or  just  flour  and  water  with  plenty  of  grease — 
Bind  it  on  thick  and  the  pain  will  soon  cease. 

If  you're  nervous  and  sleepless  there's  nothing  so  fine, 
As  hot  fomentations  applied  to  the  spine; 
Or  just  a  good  rub  all  along  the  back  bone, 
Will  cause  you  to  sleep,  to  the  system  give  tone. 

If  a  finger  is  crushed  or  an  ankle  is  sprained, 
If  a  muscle  is  wrenched  or  a  tendon  is  strained, 
Immerse  in  hot  water,  the  best  thing  on  earth — 
There  are  times  when  this  knowledge  a  fortune  is  worth. 

In  fact,  for  congestion  or  pain  anywhere, 
The  blessed  hot  water  should  always  be  there; 
A  balm  for  the  sufferer,  hot  water  alone — 
'Tis  a  shame  that  it's  not  universally  known. 

For  blues  and  despondency  this  is  the  best: 

From  arduous  labors  just  take  a  good  rest. 

"Speak  well  of  your  neighbors,  think  well  of  yourself," 

As  Hubbard  said,  this  is  a  cure  in  itself. 


C  48  ] 


EVELYN 

(The  following  poem  is  a  tribute  to  little 
Evelyn  Williams  of  Leonard,  Colo.) 

O,  Precious  little  Evelyn, 

Wee  mountain  rosebud  wild, 
We  did  not  know  that  you  were  such 

A  noble,  thoughtful  child, 
Until  a  little  episode 

Transpired  today  to  show 
The  sweet  compassion  of  your  soul 

That  Christ  and  angels  know. 

Primroses  growing  by  the  bridge 

The  little  ones  had  found, 
And  filled  their  tiny  hands  with  them, 

But  at  the  distant  sound 
Of  locomotive  whistle, 

They  had  scampered  swiftly  back, 
To  where  their  mothers  stood  and  talked 

Some  distance  from  the  track. 

But  back  across  the  bridge  again 

One  tiny  toddler  strayed, 
And  no  real  danger  threatened  her 

As  high  upon  the  grade 
The  engine  passed ;  but  Evelyn, 

While  tear-dimmed  eyes  she  hid, 
Cried,  while  her  lips  were  pale  with  fright, 

"Somebody  get  that  kid!" 

Sweet  Evelyn,  so  weak  and  limp, 

I  folded  in  my  arms, 
And  felt  I  held  an  angel  there, 

With  all  her  heavenly  charms. 
O,  wee  humanitarian, 

May  heaven  e'er  forbid 
That  I  forget  that  pleading  cry — 

"Somebody  get  that  kid!" 


God  save  the  State!   God  save  the  King!" 

Are  slogans  that  have  rung, 
All  down  the  centuries,  and  men 

Their  battle  hymns  have  sung; 
Have  fought  and  bled  and  died  to  see 

Their  land  of  foemen  rid, 
But  nobler  this  appeal,  by  far — 

"Somebody  save  that  kid." 

O,  Evelyn,  dear  Evelyn, 

I  see  you  far  away, 
With  soulful  eyes  and  busy  hands 

At  work  while  others  play. 
In  sweet,  unselfish  womanhood 

Your  youthful  charms  are  hid, 
But  still  your  watchword  then  will  be — 

"Somebody  save  that  kid." 

Ten  thousand  strong  march  little  ones 

To  factory  and  mill, 
And  toil  while  their  bright  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  germs  their  bodies  fill. 
Disease  and  death  are  lurking  there, 

Where  other  foes  are  hid, 
This  Evelyn  will  see  and  plead — 

"Somebody  save  that  kid." 

In  Eastern  mines  frail  little  boys 

So  early  work  and  late, 
At  separating  from  the  coal 

The  jagged  bits  of  slate. 
Her  azure  eyes  will  see  the  wrong, 

While  tears  bedew  each  lid, 
Our  heroine  again  will  beg — 

"Somebody  save  that  kid." 

The  fierce  and  rampant  dogs  of  war 

Around  you  rave  and  yell, 
And  little  ones  are  marching 

To  the  tune  of  "War  Is  Hell;" 
And  as  you  see  their  buoyant  youth 

Robbed  of  its  rightful  joys, 
You  raise  your  voice  in  firm  demand — 

"Somebody  save  our  boys!" 

[  50  ] 


O,  Evelyn,  the  path  is  dark, 

But  angels  light  the  way, 
For  those  whom  sweet  compassion  leads 

Where  little  children  stray. 
Through  vales  of  toil  and  tears  and  pain, 

In  storm  and  tempest  wild, 
We  hear  in  grave  solicitude — 

"Somebody  save  that  child!" 


C  51  ] 


INDIAN  VS.  "BIG  LAND  AND  WATER  MAN" 

(Written  in  1908  on  the  occasion  of  a  friend 
losing  his   homestead  through  graft.) 

Who  are  stealing  from  the  settlers 

Of  the  fair  Imperial  Vale? 
Not  the  Spaniard  nor  the  bandit, 

Nor  the  Indian  on  the  trail. 
They  respect  the  sturdy  settler, 

They  have  seen  him  at  his  toil, 
As  he  leveled  down  the  hummocks, 

Broke  the  rich  and  virgin  soil. 

They  have  seen  his  wife  and  children 

Camping  on  the  desert  sand, 
Through  the  burning  heat  of  summer 

Trying  to  "hold  down"  the  land; 
Bravely  bearing  toil  and  hardship, 

Drinking  many  a  bitter  cup, 
Looking  forward  to  that  brighter, 

Better  time  of  "proving  up." 

Some  four  centuries  ago  now, 

Just  across  in  Mexico, 
Castile's  banner  waved  protecting 

Over  many  a  bungalow, 
Where  was  heaped  the  stolen  treasure, 

Hoarded  by  the  sons  of  Spain, 
But  her  offspring  in  this  desert 

Will  not  take  the  settlers'  gain. 

Indian  may  be  "heap  much  hungry," 

He  may  need  an  ax  or  spade, 
But  Imperial  Valley  settlers 

Never  need  to  be  afraid 
That  their  hen-roosts  will  be  looted, 

That  they  cannot  chop  their  wood, 
For  Petoodleday  and  Cheedle 

Wouldn't  rob  them  if  they  could. 


[  52  ] 


But  the  man  who  holds  the  office, 

Deals  in  water  and  in  land, 
Lacks  the  honor  of  the  Spaniard 

Or  the  copper-colored  man, 
And  he  envies  the  poor  settler — 

The  results  of  all  his  toil— 
For  he  sees  unbounded  riches 

In  Imperial's  fertile  soil. 

So  his  evil  brain  devises 

Many  a  nefarious  plan, 
Whereby  he  may  rob  the  settler 

Of  his  hard-earned  piece  of  land; 
And  when  error  "chance"  to  happen 

In  the  various  deals  in  dust, 
Let  the  "ring"  charge  up  the  settler — 

He  will  pay  it,  for  he  must. 

But  a  day  is  surely  coming 

When  we  all  make  "final  proof" — 
When  a  two  by  six  is  deeded 

For  each  mortal's  earthly  use. 
'Hong  the  settlers  of  this  valley 

No  accuser  will  be  found, 
To  debar  the  honest  Indian 

From  his  "happy  hunting  ground." 


[  53  ] 


CHRISTMAS 

O,  Chistmas!    Blessed  Christmas! 

Our  Savior's  natal  day, 
We're  carried  back  across  the  years 

To  lands  so  far  away. 

We  see  Him  as  an  infant, 
So  helpless,  small  and  weak; 

His  blessed  mother,  too,  is  there, 
So  hopeful,  pure  and  meek. 

Yet  painters  of  Madonna, 

Portraying  Mary's  smile, 
Have  made  it  pensive,  sweetly  sad, 

Yet  beautiful  the  while. 

O,  mother  heart  so  tender, 
You  saw  adown  the  years — 

You  knew  His  yearnings  for  mankind, 
Beheld  His  bitter  tears. 

That  little  form  so  tender, 
There  cradled  in  your  arms, 

With  all  its  helpless  loveliness, 
With  all  its  baby  charms, 

Must  grow  to  stalwart  manhood, 

Must  sorely  tempted  be, 
Must  work,  and  weep,  and  suffer  death 

On  the  accused  tree. 

Yet  not  the  taunts  of  heartless  men, 
Nor  crown  of  thorns  so  sharp, 

Nor  torture  of  the  cruel  nails 
Nor  spear  thrust  in  the  heart, 

Gave  Him  the  deepest  anguish, 
Caused  Him  the  sharpest  pain — 

But  to  know  for  countless  millions 
He  must  live  and  die  in  vain. 

They  cannot  see  His  beauty, 

They  cannot  hear  Him  say, 
"Take  up  thy  cross  and  follow  me," 
For  the  world  is  in  their  way. 

[  54  ] 


The  blare  of  earthly  trumpets, 

The  roll  of  worldly  drums, 
Sound  in  the  ears  that  cannot  hear 

The  precious  voice  that  comes. 

To  bid  us  feed  the  hungry, 

To  visit  prisons,  too— 
These  are  the  "greater  things" 

That  He  intended  we  should  do. 

But  cursed  war  and  greed  of  gold 

Go  stalking  hand  in  hand- 
Commercialism  holds  its  bloody 

Scepter  o'er  the  land. 

All  hail  the  birthday  of  the  man, 

Who  did  not  live  for  self! 
Who  cared  not  for  the  world's  acclaim, 

For  honor,  fame  nor  pelf. 

His  blessed  hands'  tho'  weary, 
Lifted  up  the  sick  and  maimed — 

Tho'  cruel  shafts  of  hatred 
By  the  ruling  class  were  aimed. 

How  few  there  be  that  follow  Him, 
Tho'  Christmas  bells  proclaim, 

That  "Unto  us  a  Savior's  born," 
"Tho'  millions  name  His  name. 

For  recognized  evangelists 

Are  leading  men  astray, 
By  teaching  to  prepare  for  war, 

When  Christ  would  tell  them  "Nay." 

Christ's  spirit  is  compassion, 
For  the  poor  and  weak  and  sick, 

While  these  false  prophets  cater 
To  the  pompous,  great  and  rich. 

And  "Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men," 

We  hope  for  all  in  vain ; 
'Twill  not  be  found  upon  the  earth, 

While  graft  and  vengeance  reign. 


[  55  ] 


SACRIFICED 

Dear  little  boy  with  the  freckled  face, 

And  the  ragged  pantaloons; 
Since  you  were  but  a  baby  small 

It  has  been  but  a  few  brief  moons; 
But  you're  rousted  about  from  pillar  to  post, 

And  nobody  seems  to  care, 
For  the  poor,  little  boy  with  the  freckled  face 

And  the  shock  of  auburn  hair. 

The  small,  yellow  dog  that  you  love  so  well, 

Your  constant  companion,  too, 
They  kick  and  cuff  just  to  make  you  cry, 

And  to  see  what  you  will  do; 
And  then  they  laugh  with  a  big  guffaw 

When  you  shake  your  wee  fist  and  swear, 
And  tell  you  your  temper  bad  is  caused 

By  the  color  of  your  hair. 

Even  your  father  seems  to  think 

You're  just  a  plaything  for  him; 
He  holds  you  over  the  roaring  falls 

With  threats  that  he'll  throw  you  in ; 
He  gives  you  coffee  and  beer  to  drink, 

And  a  cigarette  to  smoke, 
And  when  you  are  pale  and  sick  from  these, 

He  laughs  at  the  rousing  joke. 

And  now  at  last  poor,  dear  little  boy, 

You  are  ready  to  go  to  school, 
And  it's  up  to  you  to  show  the  boys 

That  you  are  "nobody's  fool." 
Of  course,  your  initiation  comes, 

And  nobody  interferes ; 
It's  a  custom,  you  see,  that's  been  handed  down 

From  the  boys  of  former  years. 


You're  teased  and  pestered  on  every  hand, 

'Till  your  temper  is  ruined  quite; 
You're  on  the  defensive  every  day, 

And  ready  for  a  fight. 
By  nature  you're  kind  and  compassionate, 

But  they  make  you  cruel  and  rough, 
And  everybody  about  the  town 

Has  got  you  branded  tough. 

You  have  to  grow  up  poor,  dear  little  boy, 

For  the  swift  years  come  and  go, 
And  they  sing,  "Just  give  the  boy  a  chance," 

But  you  don't  find  it  so. 
In  a  general  fight  a  man  is  killed, 

And  they  lay  all  the  blame  on  you, 
And  you  haven't  the  personality 

That  you  need  to  pull  you  through. 

Others  more  guilty  are,  but  you 

The  brunt  of  it  all  must  bear, 
For  the  jury  don't  fancy  your  freckled  face, 

And  the  Judge  doesn't  like  your  hair; 
And  the  crowd  will  swerve  to  the  popular  side, 

Nor  reason  nor  care  nor  think — 
Prosperity  prospers  the  wide  world  o'er, 

And  the  under  dog  may  sink. 

This  is  the  rule,  it  has  ever  been, 

And  we  know  that  it  e'er  will  be, 
'Till  true  Christianity  takes  the  place 

Of  the  hateful  sham  we  see. 
Thinkers  are  few.   The  thousands  live 

Just  to  be  entertained — 
Why  this  is  true  in  a  Christian  land, 

Never  has  been  explained. 


[  57  j 


THE  KEFOKMER  SUICIDE 

Yes,  he  was  weary,  was  tired  of  life — 
Sick  of  its  problems,  its  labor  and  strife; 
Tired  of  earning  that  others  might  spend, 
Of  finding  a  foe  when  he  needed  a  friend; 
Tired  of  giving  that  others  might  take, 
Renouncing  ideals  for  other  folks'  sake, 
Who  realized  not  the  keen  pain  that  it  brought, 
And  set  all  his  high  aspirations  at  naught. 
Misunderstood,  misconstrued  what  he  said, 
Censured  the  authors  whose  writings  he  read; 
Antagonized  him  in  all  that  he  planned, 
Simply  because  they  could  not  understand. 

Weary  of  waiting  and  hoping  in  vain, 

Longing  for  sunshine  mid  torrents  of  rain; 

Tired  of  troubles  within  and  without, 

That  tortured  his  soul,  drove  his  spirit  about 

On  the  wild,  tossing  waves  of  life's  troublesome  sea, 

With  no  kindred  spirit  near,  no  sympathy. 

Beautiful  visions  by  day  and  by  night, 

Of  bitter  wrongs  vanquished,  of  triumph  of  right, 

Passed  through  his  mind  as  he  hoped  for  the  day, 

When  oppression  and  wrong  would  no  longer  hold  sway; 

But  he  daily  saw  reason  o'erruled  by  brute  force — 

The  boy  with  the  burro,  the  man  with  the  horse; 

The  dear  little  child,  dwarfed  in  body  and  mind, 

The  youth  drove  to  crime  and  to  prison  consigned; 

The  rich  making  merchandise  out  of  the  poor, 

Men  driven  insane  by  the  strain  they  endure. 

Might  making  right  all  around  he  perceived — 

Deplored  these  conditions  and  constantly  grieved. 

Pondered  and  thought,  but  could  not  reconcile, 

A  Providence  just,  with  conditions  so  vile. 

With  nature  too  fine  for  this  coarse,  cruel  sphere, 

With  highest  ideals,  unrealized  here, 

Tired  of  hearing  of  war  and  of  strife, 

Weary  of  all  of  it— tired  of  life. 


[  58  ] 


TO  SAN  QUENTIN  PKISON  FOE  LIFE 

There  is  a  boy  down  in  San  Quentin  Prison  for  life. 

Your  boy  may  hail  the  sun  every  morning,  romp  and 
play,  enjoy  the  songs  of  the  birds,  revel  in  fields  of  flowers, 
eat  the  luscious  fruits  of  this  "land  of  fruit  and  blossom," 
enjoy  life  in  every  way,  without  even  a  thought  of  thank- 
fulness or  appreciation.  You  are  here  to  provide  for  him, 
to  protect  him,  to  see  that  he  does  right,  that  he  keeps  out 
of  bad  company,  that  he  is  not  learning  to  be  criminal  by 
practicing  cruelty  upon  birds  or  animals  or  weaker  boys, 
that  he  doesn't  learn  to  smoke  or  drink,  and  that  no  one 
imposes  upon  him. 

This  poor  boy  was  unfortunate  from  the  beginning. 
Heredity,  prenatal  influence  and  environment  were  all 
against  him.  His  father,  because  Nature  had  not  endowed 
him  with  wits  as  keen  as  those  of  the  grasping  real  estate 
agent  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  was  cheated  out  of  his 
hard-earned  farm.  He  was  destitute  and  discouraged,  de- 
spondent and  unkind.  He  gave  no  encouragement  or 
praise  to  the  sick,  weary,  disheartened  wife  who  shared 
with  him  a  bare  existence. 

When  the  tiny  mite  of  humanity  came  to  share  their 
misery  and  want,  it  was  little  wonder  it  was  unwelcome. 
Its  little  form,  dressed  in  the  coarsest  of  clothing  and 
wrapped  in  an  old,  faded  shawl,  was  a  constant  reminder  of 
added  work  and  care. 

It  is  true  that  sometimes  there  are  sublime  characters, 
who,  in  spite  of  the  most  abject  poverty,  love  and  cherish 
their  offspring  with  an  undying  devotion.  But  Pate  was 
less  kind  to  this  unfortunate  couple. 

Finally  the  little  boy,  already  dwarfed  in  mind  and 
body  from  lack  of  nutritious  food,  warm  clothing,  proper 
care  and  love  (that  divine  thing  that  is  as  essential  to  a 
child  as  sunshine  is  to  a  plant),  was  sent  to  school,  there 
to  be  teased  and  tormented  because  his  clothes  were  shab- 
by and  out  of  style,  because  his  ears  were  "lopped"  from 
wearing  his  father's  old  hat,  and  because  he  felt  his  own 
inability  to  command  respect. 

Every  day  was  a  torture  to  him. 


[  59  ] 


Oh,  teacher!  Why  didn't  you  find  the  soul  of  that  little 
boy  and  lead  it  into  the  light?  Protect  it  from  the  jeers  of 
the  strong,  heartless,  tyrannical  children  of  the  "better 
class?" 

But  he  must  not  tell  you  his  troubles,  even  when  the 
poor,  little  heart  was  breaking  with  its  burden.  He  must 
not  "tattle"  and  make  trouble  for  you. 

But  your  opportunity  is  gone  forever.  You  cannot 
recall  those  golden  hours  when  you  might  have  snatched 
a  soul  from  the  jaws  of  death. 

He  must  take  whatever  of  ridicule  and  abuse  he  got. 
No  wonder  he  grew  up  thinking  that  heaven  and  earth, 
God  and  man,  even  the  stars  of  the  firmament,  were  all 
against  him. 

Once  he  ventured  to  tell  a  young  girl  that  he  loved  her 
(and  she  had  listened  to  worse  young  men),  but  instead  of 
a  kindly  refusal,  such  as  a  young  girl  of  true  refinement 
would  have  given  him  if  she  did  not  care  to  accept  him, 
she  ridiculed  him  and  held  him  up  as  an  object  of  derision 
for  her  heartless  friends.  She  had  never  been  taught  any 
better.  She  did  not  know  that  such  conduct  was  not  only 
weak  and  silly,  but  criminal. 

This  unfortunate  young  man  was  finally  driven  from 
home  by  a  drunken  father,  and  as  his  poor  mother  had, 
many  years  before,  given  up  the  struggle  and  gone  the  way 
of  all  the  earth,  he  was  friendless  and  alone. 

Once  a  noble-hearted  woman  noticed  his  sad  face, 
spoke  kindly  and  cheerily  to  him,  and  noted  the  quick 
appreciation  in  his  eyes;  but  their  paths  lay  apart,  and 
not  one  person,  aside  from  her,  ever  gave  him  a  kindly, 
sympathetic  word,  or  really  cared  for  his  well-being. 

Finally  in  an  unguarded  moment  of  distraction,  when, 
unfortunately,  the  planets  helped  to  augment  his  state  of 
mind,  in  revenge  for  an  actual  wrong  and  indignity,  such 
as  had  been  heaped  upon  him  ever  since  his  unwelcome 
advent  into  life,  he  dealt  a  fatal  blow  to  his  tormentor, 
and  now  he  pays  the  penalty  that  should  be  paid  by  the 
voters  who  uphold  the  system  that  impoverished  his 
father  and  rendered  his  life  accursed;  by  his  teacher  who 


[  60  ] 


failed  to  protect  him  from  abuse,  and  by  every  one  who 
persecuted  him.  But  he  is  buried  in  the  prison  and  for- 
gotten by  them  all. 

The  great  mills  of  time  and  toil  grind  on,  the  years 
come  and  go,  bringing  the  holidays,  on  which  those  who 
have  wronged  him  feast  and  make  merry. 

The  New  Year  means  nothing  to  him,  for  it  brings  no 
new  opportunities.  Easter  comes,  but  he  has  no  interest 
in  a  risen  Christ,  for  he  feels  that  those  who  profess  to 
know  Christ  take  no  interest  in  him,  do  not  "suffer  bond- 
age" nor  "weep"  with  him. 

Decoration  Day  reminds  him  that  he  will  never  pluck 
another  flower,  and  that  no  one  will  ever  lay  a  blossom 
upon  his  grave. 

Independence  Day  comes,  but  he  has  no  liberty  to  cele- 
brate. The  government  under  which  he  lives  is  an  abso- 
lute despotism. 

Thanksgiving  Day  is  the  worst  mockery  of  all.  He  has 
nothing  to  be  thankful  for. 

On  Christmas  he  reflects  that  he  has  never  had  any 
"peace  on  earth,"  and  that  no  one  ever  showed  him  "good- 
will;" and  that  had  they  done  so,  all  might  now  be  dif- 
ferent. 

And  he  must  endure  this  for  life — for  more  or  less,  as 
Fate  fixes  it,  of  monotonous,  maddening  existence. 

And  he  is  only  one  of  many  thousands. 

Yet  our  system  remains  the  same.  We  make  the  crim- 
inal, then  we  blame,  we  censure,  we  subject  to  the  third 
degree;  we  heap  calumny  upon  the  head  of  the  accused 
man,  we  banish  to  the  prison  cell  the  man  created  in  the 
image  of  his  Maker;  we  forget  him  there  and  go  on  with 
our  business  and  revelry,  oblivious  to  his  suffering — go  on 
just  as  they  did  in  medieval  Rome,  'till  the  swift  cycles 
of  Time  whirl  us  before  the  Great  Judge  of  all  the  world, 
and  there,  face  to  face  with  the  multiplied  millions  who 
have  languished  in  the  prisons  of  the  earth,  we  will  stand 
to  render  our  account! 


INCARNATE  CHRIST 

O,  let  us  try  to  see  the  Christ  in  man, 
Nor  crucify  the  Son  of  God  afresh, 
And  put  Him  to  an  open  shame  because 
We  recognize  Him  not  here  on  the  earth. 
For  if  we  ever  knew  Him,  we  can  see 
Him  shining  in  the  liquid  depths  of  eyes, 
Beseeching  us  for  human  sympathy. 

O,  man,  so  lost  to  Christ's  compassion  sweet! 
So  bound  to  cold  conventionalities — 
To  forms  so  dead,  so  cruel,  so  corrupt, 
And  yet  we,  in  our  blindness,  our  conceit, 
Think  that  they  form  a  part  of  virtue  fair- 
Believe  that  they  refine  and  civilize. 

We  tend  and  prune  and  cultivate  so  well, 
The  very  things  that  curse  and  spoil  our  lives—* 
That  bind  our  children  in  the  galling  chains, 
That  fret  and  wear,  enslave  and  madden  them, 
'Till  breaking  every  bond  in  desperate  mood. 
Often  the  ones  to  freedom  most  inclined 
Make  a  bold,  rash  and  headlong  leap, 
And  crashing  down  the  idols  reared  around 
The  old  and  venerated  family  tree, 
Relics  of  superstitious,  by-gone  times, 
They  shock  us  into  sanity,  and  then 
We  breathe  the  air  of  Nature's  rational  man. 

But  soon  the  roar  of  business  and  the  strife 
For  honor,  and  for  prestige,  and  for  pelf, 
Sound  in  our  ears  once  more,  and  then  again 
We  plunge  into  the  whirl  of  business  life, 
And  struggle  on  unloving  and  unloved, 
Because  we  see  not  Christ  in  mortal  man. 

The  eyes  of  little  children  looking  up 
To  catch  responsive  sympathy  and  love, 
See  only  stern  reproof,  where  oftentimes 
They  crave  and  need  the  loving  look  and  word. 


[  62  ] 


Every  heart-ache  eased  and  sadness} 

Yea!  every  gloomy  prospect  made  more  bright 

Is  an  expression  of  the  Christ  within. 

Say  not  vain  words  of  servile  flattery, 

To  gain  the  favor  of  the  Christ  who  said, 

"As  sure  as  ye  have  done  good  unto  these. 

My  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 

But  see  in  man  the  dear,  incarnate  Christ, 

And  say  to  him  the  blessed  words  of  cheer. 

Not  only  in  the  man  on  bended  knee, 

In  supplication  at  a  throne  of  grace, 

Not  only  priest  and  prelate,  he  who  makes 

Profession  of  a  Christian  heart  and  life, 

But  in  the  lowliest  laborer  who  lends 

A  helping  hand  to  his  poor,  toiling  friend. 

Look  for  incarnate  Christ  in  all  you  meet, 

In  every  one  who  walks  upon  the  earth — 

Even  the  criminal  behind  the  bars, 

Made  often  so  by  others'  unkind  deeds ; 

But  in  whose  inmost  heart  dwells  sympathy 

To  the  extent  that  he  can  make  a  pet 

Of  such  a  lowly  creature  as  a  mouse, 

As  Oppenheimer*  did,  and  cherish  it, 

And  daily  watch  its  coming  to  his  cell ; 

And  when,  at  last,  one  day  it  fell  a  prey 

To  the  jailkeeper's  cruel,  thoughtless  cane, 

Weep  and  lament  the  loss  of  this,  his  friend — 

The  only  living  thing  that  he  might  love. 

And  when  its  softening  influence  was  removed, 

And  the  maddening  confinement  in  his  cell, 

The  dread  monotony,  improper  food 

And  everything  a  high-strung  nature  loathes, 

Caused  him  in  desperation  once  again 

To  strike  another  frantic,  fatal  blow, 

His  life  must  pay  the  penalty  extreme. 

That  life,  that  had  men  seen  in  early  years 

The  Christ  that  in  him  dwelt  and  loved  the  same, 

This  "desperate  criminal"  ne'er  would  have  been. 


*Oppenheimer  is  supposed  to  have  been  one  of  California's 
most  desperate  criminals. 


[  63  ] 


We  pray,  "0,  &o<l,  thy  kingdom  come  on  earth!" 
And  when  it  comes  our  blind  eyes  see  it  not. 
What  we  call  Justice  oftentimes  is  graft. 
Commercialism  holds  the  world  enthralled 
Within  its  cruel,  deadly,  iron  grip, 
And  throttles  with  its  unrelenting  hand 
The  church,  the  courts  of  justice  of  the  land. 
The  pedagogue  who  surely  feels  and  knows 
What  should  be  taught  the  child  in  public  school, 
How  plastic  natures  should  be  molded,  but 
Who  dares  not  act  as  conscience  bids  him  do, 
Lest  his  position  be  the  sacrifice. 

O,  Christ,  nowhere  in  this  great  universe 
Do  you  shine  forth  as  in  the  lives  of  those 
Who,  meeting  sore  oppression,  dare  to  stand 
In  spite  of  cruel  jibe  and  coward's  taunt, 
In  face  of  opposition,  sore  and  strong, 
In  face  of  wrath  and  malice  hurled  apace, 
Or  deadly  boycott  and  of  slander  vile 
And  always  ever  and  anon  uphold 
The  cause  of  the  down-trodden  and  the  weak. 

Away  with  creeds  that  steel  and  brutalize! 
Christ's  spirit  never  was  akin  to  such. 
Up  with  compassion's  banner,  fling  it  wide! 
Let  men  and  angels  love  incarnate  Christ. 


I    C4   J 


PAT;  JAN.  21,  im 


3588 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


